Vanille was practically seething. Let him think her a fool. Let him think himself the only one to ever carry pain, to ever witness it. When they’d arrived here, it was her who lost her loving family, it was her who’d been dragged away with her soul kicking and screaming. He was the fool and she would bear the name no longer. Vanille’s entire being roared in the face of his presence.
Pity me, his words cooed to her. See my misery, they practically yelled. But she’d been cast her own net of hurt, and it’d snagged on every pretty part of herself until she was nothing but ripped skin and broken shards.
He needed her sympathy? He needed her excuses and explanations? Let him force them from her mouth, then; press his pretty little claws to her throat and rip the words from her that he wished to hear. He was no coward, so why should he put the facade up now?
They'd both drawn swords and unsheathed them just enough to threaten each other with the telltale shine of metal, but it was not she who fully withdrew. He'd pulled it and he'd aimed it, but she pressed her muscle into the blade. If he wished to wield it, let it be made useful. Let it be painted like it should, as hers should.
The woman's breath left her in a shuddering motion, her anger carving fistfuls of hate in a hand choking her throat. Words meant to ease the situation, to defuse, fell flat in the face of his own remarks. “You sound like a petulant little boy, whining after a toy that's been taken from him.” He questions her heart? Her spirit? Let him remember this.
Her movements were swift, yearning and wanting in a way that steered clear of desire and instead wasted away in a dance with hate. He was larger than her, breathed into the movements to defend and offend, but Vanille had been taught her own measures. Passion guided her, passion moved her, and that passion yearned for her to best him—to show him she was not some little girl he could push around any longer. Besotted, she hadn't been in a long time. But even her passion left chance for his own talents, and though Vanille aimed to pin him, knocking into his side as he pulled away, she was prepared for his quick offense. Either way, pinned or not, her point would remain the same.
He didn't deserve to look down at her. Didn't deserve to mock her where there wasn't anything worthy of mockery. “You are a fool! Perhaps I should blame your father for that trait, feeding you on that silver spoon you find yourself so attached to. Gods forbid, something is taken from you. I was not yours! Let yourself remember that when you think of the engagement you sought to continue when the kingdom was lost. You did not claim me, so you don't get to control me.” She shook where she stood above him, spittle flying in her momentary fit before she was stepping away. Her shoulders lifted in controlled breaths.
“I was taken from the Vale. I fought, and simply because you do not see the scars with your eye, does not make them any less there. I am riddled with pain, with a life shoved into my throat. I either accepted it, or I perished, you don't get to discredit me just because I am not the girl who fawned over the prince she fell in love with. The friend who no longer stands in front of me now.” Vanille laughed into the Vale.
Insane, she felt. Lifted and free, she was embraced by the tendrils of cold against heated skin. “But yes, let us pity the King who lost one of his pawns.” It was uttered to him over her back, sturdy steps guiding her back to the rough cliffside.
the staff team luvs u